


TAP Out

by LoveSlugg



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:45:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveSlugg/pseuds/LoveSlugg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Step into a story that unravels time itself. Watch Ian Gallagher fall madly in love with someone he should never have, yet break time just to have him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is happening because I watched The Big Lebowski, afterword got drunk and watched Looper, then fell asleep listening to Patsy Cline's "Crazy for Loving You" while the older Twilight Zone was on. 
> 
> Prologue is in 3rd person, narrator point of view  
> Chapters to follow will be in 1st person, characters' points of view
> 
> I know my style of writing might be strange, but in the my creative writing class, people seemed to dig it. So. . .ENJOY!

 

**. . .**

_Introduction_

Way out midwest there’s this man. A man by the name of Ian Clayton Gallagher. There’s a lot about Ian that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about when and where he lives, likewise. But then again, maybe that's why I find the place so interesting. I only tell this because sometimes there's a man. I won't say a hero because, what's a hero? But sometimes, there's a man for his time and place. Hell. I've introduced Ian enough.

Allow me to introduce myself. I’m a momentary narrator. And right now I’m observing our man drink himself into a surly stupor.

 

**. . .**

_It Begins With_

The empty bar, along with just about all the other buildings on the south side of town, is long since forgotten. Dusty and full of black mold. Condemnable past the overgrown weeds and rat infested sheet molding. Sixty years ago, the place was beautiful. Thriving, full of life and the pulse of man driven mad on high morals and big dreams. Flashing lights, open doors with smells of expensive wine and perfumes. Cars lining both side of the streets. Festivals and family gatherings. All the stuff Ian watches on old film and wishes he could have been part of but never will. At least not permanently. Since the third world war, Chicago, just as many other cities, has been desolate and overrun with crime. It’s gotten so bad that the population was moved. Citizens here are mole people now, living in shelters built underground. Locked up so that who roams above can’t come down. A city full of fear and cowardice. And our man, Ian Gallagher, he’s part of the problem. Sitting here in the bar, sipping a bottle of hooch, he and Rich, they’re two of many men in the city who do a lot of yearly traveling. Some people call them murderers, assassins, liars. As a group, they are called Hitters. A special kind of criminal. Kind of the worst.

Rich, he’s not very bright. His grades were shit in school and both of his parents kicked over when he was in the tenth grade, so he dropped out and never graduated. Couldn’t find work underground, so he came above. Just like Ian did, but for different reasons; and now he can’t get back. He’s stuck working for Joey Gallow as another low life Hitter.

Money? Rich and Ian have plenty of that. Anyone who does dirty work for Joey has. And up top, things might be rough, but there is plenty of life on the opposite side of Chicago Upground. Just not the kind of life a person brings home to mom. Picture the toughest inner city neighborhood and multiply that by double. But with money, a person can get by up here.

It’s not the kind of life Ian would choose for himself if he could change it. But Rich is the type who’s happy with what they do, and that’s why tonight, Ian snapped on him.

He’s about six feet and three inches tall, same as Ian, except Rich weighs ninety pounds more than the ginger. None of it’s muscle. The only work out this guy ever sees is however many steps it takes walking to the refrigerator. And he’s not nice or funny. Ian hasn’t liked this asshole since day one, but friend pickings are slim and he doesn’t have a chance to be choosy.

Right now Ian is sitting in a pile of dirt beside Rich. The guy’s beak nose is busted up and his hair is all sweaty. Ian has given him a bruised cheek and that left eye of his is going to swell tomorrow, no doubt. He’s conscious, just out of breath and giving Ian the silent treatment. Face down, fists balled up near either side of his neck, resting on the hardwood.

“Fuck you,” Ian huffs,  rolls his eyes and stand up.

Dusting himself off, Ian grabs his black leather jacket from the back of his stool and slips it on. Meanwhile, Rich is rolling over.

“Did that answer your question?” Ian bites at him, fixing his jacket collar.

“Sure did, Gallagher,” He says back, cold, through his bloody teeth.

As Ian walk out into chilly darkness, he knows Rich and he won’t see each other again unless they cross paths in Joey’s flat. Which Ian will try to not allow. People like Rich are never satisfied to leave well enough alone and our man doesn’t want a part of it.

What is a hitter, a yearly traveler? A hitter is someone who has been to the year 1960 and also 2045. Joey Gallow, the employer, is from some time thirty years in the future, a decade when time travel is real and also extremely illegal. He pays people like Ian and Rich to smuggle drugs and such. To kill off a name passed down to him from associates or even sometimes enemies. Hitters are a kind of mob. Only the gunk Joey shoots them up with to get them where he needs them is running low as of late. Thus the time frame Ian and Rich have wherever he sends them is getting shorter. Last time Ian was given fifteen minutes to knock over a bank. Talk about pressure. But even before that, they are only even given an hour. And when Joey sends someone after more gunk, they’ll have that hour back.

Aside from the killing and theft, Hitting is an all right gig. These men and woman, they get to see a lot.

What Ian feels for this job is a strange sort of appreciation. He both hates it and loves it.

The real problem most men have with this is not the crime, it’s the mental anguish; people like Rich. . .they find a place and time they like and want to stay in. And well, they can’t stay. It doesn’t work like that. The juice filters through the blood, gets pumped out. And when it does, sayonara. Better have the shit in hand, or else whatever Joey sends after gets left behind. The only thing a Hitter can’t bring back is anything living.

Rich thinks he’s going to steal a stash of the gunk and go to whenever Joey came from. So he can grab an endless supply. Enough to hang out for thirty years starting in 1987. Screw this nazi chick he’s apparently got a thing for, then kill himself before the juice runs dry.

It’s a dangerous idea and Ian is not getting roped in. No way.

Ian marches on, into the desolate streets of Chicago, circa 2030. Collar up to keep the wind from nipping at his ears.

**. . .**

_So_

I think for now, I’ll bite my tongue and allow Ian and his associates to speak for themselves. I like to watch, but well, interfering isn’t really my thing.


	2. Music ; Target

. . .

_Music_

Mandy plays the piano beautifully.

Sounds of music float around my room, out the open windows to tangle with the billowing sheets-for-curtains. Our shared flat is nothing more than a melody box with a lovely brunette center stage. She’s bent over the keys. Messy pinned hair flopping about as she pounds away another personal composure. She has real talent. But only when she’s spent off on methamphetamines.

Laying on the tattered olive sofa, I curl up with Mandy’s thick fur coat and try closing my eyes again. The fur smells of cigarettes and plum perfume. A hint of puke and piss. I don’t know where my sister’s been tonight. But if the song gives any clue, the place must have been awful.

“Mandy,” I call out, nose so deep in the coat it tickles. She only lifts her head on the third yell. Looks at me with cloudy eyes and stops playing. The stillness is abrupt and somehow disturbing to me. Mandy props her cheek in her palm, waiting impatiently. I clear my throat and sit up. “You know,” I start, “I’m only letting you stay here to get clean. Doesn’t sound like you’re pitching in the effort, though.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Mickey,” she mumbles, “I had a bad day.”

“Bad week,” I spit back, putting my feet on the cold floor. “Bad life. Doesn’t matter,” I go, “we all have our issues. And if you can’t work out your own, I’m throwing your ass back to the wolves.”

“What’s your damage?” Mandy snaps at me, slamming the piano lid. She glaring at me now. Hot daggers.

“My damage?” I quip, popping my neck and picking up the still burning cigarette from the ashtray by my heel. “How about, I cleaned up and would like to keep me that way. You’re dragging me down, bitch.” I blow out a ring of smoke, trying to remain cool and collected.

Thing is, my family doesn’t really know how to love each other. Kind of hard to figure out the inner workings of that emotion when the man of the house is poisoning everything but the basic survival instinct in all of his offspring. My old man’s the scum beneath the fingernails of each homeless person in Chicago. Or maybe he’s worse than scum. I don’t know. All I know he managed to fuck all of his kids up.

Out of the eight of us, I’m the only one who kind of made it. Mandy is teetering the way of Colin. I’ll find her body laying in my bathroom no doubt. Flat on her back, drown in her own vomit. Needle, cotton, and spoon by her pipe. Finding my oldest brother like that is the only reason I committed myself tp rehab. Two years ago today. Twenty two and still alive. Better than I can say for my other womb mates.

Iggy might still be kicking, but he’ll never set foot outside bars again. Drugs or bullets eventually end all Milkovichs. That or rotting away just like dear old dad. I don’t want to see my twin sister end up the same. However, I likewise don’t want to find myself smoking her pipe. Which she carelessly leaves laying around.

“Jesus H Christ,” Mandy scowls. She puts her hands on her hip and stomps over to me. “If you want me to leave, just fucking say it!” she barks, foul meth breath wafting up my nose.

My heart pumps faster, blood pounding in my ears. Grinding my teeth, all I can think to do is yell back at her. Instinct. “I want you to pack your shit up!” I snarl, smoke puffing all around us from my last inhale. Cigarette out to the side as I point her to the door. I wish I could bite my tongue. “Keep your junkie ass hell away from me!”

She’d cry if she were anyone else’s blood. Instead, Mandy balls up her fists and spits in my face. Shoves past me. She knocks the cigarette to the floor and I set to stamping it out as she grabs her coat, quickly shoves most of her belongings into it, and storms out, slamming my door.

Groaning, I fall back on my ass, sinking deep into my dusty sofa. I hold my face and breath out a long, regretful sigh. 

. . .

_Target_

 

The sun’s up. Yawning, I smack my alarm clock with a pillow and roll onto my back, stretching. I can’t believe I slept past noon. And that I have such a terrible hangover. Joey’s going to be furious because I’ve missed my appointment. Today was supposed to be when I fetched him more juice. I’m sure he sent someone else after it. So really there is no harm. Just that he doesn’t take kindly to fuck ups. Even minor ones. Well, to me it seems minor. To him, my missing the appointment is a giant insult. Especially being as I’m supposedly his favorite.

Oh well. What’s done is done. After I scarf down a can of spam for breakfast, it’ll be off to work I go. Off to face the music. I’m sure Joey will scream at me until he’s blue in the face.

My trailer is basically a disaster. I’d say it looks kind of like a bomb shelter. I haven’t really felt like cleaning lately. Mostly it’s because the job is getting to me. I keep having messed up dreams about a family I’ve never met. A voice in my head that isn’t my own. And my skin around the daily injection won’t stop itching. It’s driving me crazy.

Stumbling over piles of dirty laundry and beer boxes, I find my way to the closet and fish out some jeans and flannel. I’m not really feeling like a suit today. Joey’s going to be distracted by my mistake anyway; he won’t a give a fuck what I’m wearing.

And I’m right on the money. He could give a shit less about my Fizz Pop tshirt and flannel button up. Or my pencil jeans and sneakers. Joey, he’s far too busy pacing the room and fuming. I stand back, arms crossed and chin down, chewing the inside of my lip and listening.

“Ian,” he hisses, “this isn’t like you to miss an appointment!”

Something about ordinarily not tolerating insubordination. Two weeks without pay. Good news is, he’s not going to kill me over this.

“Do you understand me?” he prompts, finally standing still in front of his desk. His ape hands are pulling at the bottom of his pin-striped suit. He’s sweating profusely. That rat of a tupe he wear is a mess.

“Yes, sir,” I say, looking guilty. If I said I hadn’t been about to shit my pants from nervousness, I’d be lying. This man’s political power is not something to be treated lightly.

Breathing heavily, he walks around and spins in his chair. He opens the drawer and my stomach drops. I swallow the ball in my throat when all Joey pulls out is a fat cigar. He proceeds to light it and wave off the men he had standing by the open door. “Get David when he shows back up,” he tells them, taking a big puff. “Bring him to me.”

The thickness of cigar smoke has never appealed to me. I cough, waving away some of the fumes.

“And store the TAP downstairs,” Joey says just as the door shuts, leaving us alone.

Joey’s office is stuffy and cold. His headquarters is in an abandoned bank. This office is the vault.

Once he’s done giving orders, he looks back at me, rubs off some of the ash from his cigar onto the steel plate atop his desk. He cocks his brow. Or rather, where his eyebrows should be. He’s completely hairless. “What the hell are you wearing, Gallagher?” he asks me, gruff.

I look down at myself and my vintage clothing, scratch my head. “Well I left in such a hurry,” I lie.

He brushes it off. Waves for me to hush. “Never mind,” he says, “lets get one last thing straight.” He nods to the chair behind me, tells me to pull it up and have a seat.

Hesitant to oblige, I finally do so. I know it’s probably because he doesn’t like me towering over him. Guys like Joey Gallow need the appearance of authority at all seconds of the day. Playing with a string on my knee, I meet his large brown eyes and hold my breath.

“I have a special request for you,” he tells me, cigar between his teeth as he digs through his desk drawer. He keeps talking, head down so that his throat is nearly closed off, voice strained. “Because of your behavior, it’ll be unpaid. Also because of your behavior, I suggest you don’t tell me no,” Joeys trails. The threat is obvious. He runs this city. Basically, he’s daring me to tell him to suck it. If I do that, I’ll be sucking a barrell of one of the many shotguns lining these walls.

Sighing, I lean forward and play thumb-war with myself, awaiting the rest of what he has to say. He never uses the term “special.”

“The higher ups,” he goes, “have a client in need of some,” he pauses, sits up finally with the files he’d been digging for, and grunts, “cleansing.” Tosses down the papers and the smack they make startles me. Of course he notices this, subtle smirk forming on his lips. He points down at the shit in front of him.

Splayed face up are grainy images of a weathered looking young man. He’s maybe twenty. Crow nose, already thinning black hair. Permanent scowl across his pale face. The Bears jacket he’s wearing in the top photograph reminds me of the one I found in the garbage behind Saxon’s Dinner.

“Who is he?” I ask, brows knitting together as I scoot for a closer look.

“His name’s Milkovich,” Joey says. “Terry Milkovich.”


End file.
